The Man with Weak Ankles

Sometimes, it feels like the written word acquires life all on its own and finds a way to come true. Last week, at an event, I was so rubbed up the wrong way by one of the performers that I bashed out a quick piece on my phone on how he irked me. Tonight, prior to the commencement of the same event, his awfulness came up in conversation and I was forced to admit to some friends that his unsavoury self had given me an enraged flash of inspiration to count the many ways in which I do not love him. The event itself is great and I wish they wouldn't let him sully it. My friends, on reading my "rage review" piece called me mean, and made various feline noises because they thought I was being catty and vindictive. They hadn't picked up on some of his less choice characteristics. Needless to say, after his repeat performance tonight, they were up and cheering, falling about in stitches. Not because his set was any good but because, with his very own mouth, he totally implicated himself and it turned out that I was RIGHT rather than mean about him.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, my flash in the pan "rage review" of a performer I have Christened, "The Man With Weak Ankles"...


The male form can be let down by the jointing of its ankles. The male form is not properly resolved unless he has good legs and good feet. The specimen who have weak ankles, with feet not squarely placed on the ground but tilting slightly outward, seemingly splayed and cursed un-parallel by awkward knees is a sign - no, a certain indication - of duplicity, misogyny, and vainglorious falibility. They are the type of men whose feet are indeed flippers, designed for treading quick sand and bearing them stealthily to all manner of destinations, except those to which they profess they have been.

Such was he, the ugly oaf like rapper who mounted the stage this Thursday evening, proselytising about a pimply 6'4" woman who was a pretty little bitch on the outside but ugly inside, how he used to be pretty inside and now, thanks to her he was now ugly inside. It was not necessary to forgive him his apparel, to give him the benefit of the doubt and ignore his badly drawn American dreams; I understood then that my diagnosis of his inferior mental state based on his roughshod skeletal infrastructure was spot on. The blame-dispensing, under-achieving, and lascivious fool.

His dishonesty is all too obvious to me, if not to everyone else. His claim to musical prowess lies in his pre-fabricated rapper persona; and yet his most damning revelation is nestled in his inadvertent admission that he gets used and abused by questionable, gargantuan women who have no beauty or skin care regimen to speak of. I wager that he also gets dismissed by the gorgeous, tall, leggy ladies, who don't acknowledge his being alive because he is so far removed from even the most elemntary levels of human accomplishment.

The disdain tonic he has brewed on account of said women (neither of whom want him) he now sweats out with malarial intensity, strained and rebottled with extra spices for an unsuspecting audience whom he tricked into believing they'd be getting some genuine creativity and music.

My message to the man with weak ankles is this: 'Oh ye with your cap back to front at your age, poor you, shame, you are inconsequential and lame.'